


The Day After That

by mnemosyne



Category: Underground (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 18:47:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7725736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnemosyne/pseuds/mnemosyne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-series vignette. Rosalee can't sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day After That

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brigdh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brigdh/gifts).



The air smelled different here, sweetly pungent tones of unfamiliar flowers swirling through the warm night air, mingling almost to incense with the smoke of the candle Rosalee had just blown out.

Her hands were tense on the window frame, one nail scraping against a small sliver of peeling paint. Flakes fluttered off, small dots of white disappearing into the darkness below. Dusk had been and gone some time ago; the only light now was the moon and stars, and if she tilted her head just right, a small, flickering glow in a window not far away, over the grass. She watched it for a while, counted seconds in her breathing, until it too finally snuffed out, and there was nothing left but nature.

The nightdress she wore fell too large over her shoulders, and she pulled it tighter, leaning out of her window. They had told her to rest, to sleep, and it was all she had been able to do not to laugh in their faces. She would sleep when she needed to, and she did not yet feel the need. It could be she wouldn't ever feel the need again. Her mind was too full, questions and answers tumbling over and over each other, as if the walls she had built to keep them at bay all this while had crumbled to dust over the course of a night.

Was her mother looking at the moon right now? Maybe. She had never been one to admit to this kind of cold romance, but it was so big and so sharp tonight, surely it would have caught her eye. Maybe Noah, wherever he was, would look up, out of a window, and catch a glimpse of it. Maybe it would wake James from his bed, make him scrub his small fists over his eyes. Rosalee smiled, tight and small, could see in her mind’s eye the knitted brow on his small face. When her heart twisted painfully in her chest, she barely flinched at all. I’ll see them again, she promised the moon. If I have to make it happen myself, I will, she added to the stars.

It was harder to think about Noah; her mind rebelled almost physically as she recalled the form of his face the last time she had seen it. She had thought once that he would be the strength in her, but she had been wrong. She had been her own strength. But Noah… he had been sure. Of her, of the journey, of what needed to be done. Even when they doubted him, and hadn't he been right all along? Noah was support, was dark eyes that buoyed her, was low words that made a shield around her until she felt she could take on anything. Noah was tomorrow, and Noah was the day after that, and the day after that. And she would hold his faith in her hands, careful, so that it would never be lost.

As the breeze played over her cheek, she allowed herself to drift away from the thoughts that did not want to come at all. The ache in her heart was a dull bruise, and Cato pressed it now as hard and as sure he had always had.

She could still feel the warmth of that room, the smoothness of the piano keys as she had sat down to play. Cato’s hand on her arm had been heavy, taut, as if he had wanted to pull her away from the situation every moment he could. She had revelled in the comfort, and chafed at the implication; it had almost been enough to make her forget to remember to feel afraid at all. It had been a miracle at the time that the notes sounded so pure, so serene, when her heart had been beating so fast that she had thought she was going to be sick. Unconsciously, her fingers began to press the melody into the wooden sill.

It was almost funny, she thought, but It was only looking back that she remembered the softness in his face. Then, she hadn't, couldn't have, stopped to share in that warmth she had seen when she had played her song. There had been too much at stake, too many factors to keep her mind spinning. Every inflection, every small twitch of movement on the part of any of the three men in that room, none of it was above notice, not if she and Cato were going to get out of there with their lives, not if she wanted to help Noah. And through it all, she hadn't felt calm, could barely remember what calm felt like, but strangely comforted in the weight of the familiarity of the situation. She had been watching men like this all her life, and waiting, and waiting, and waiting for the next moment to come. In their ways, they all had.

If he were here now, he’d have laughed at her and denied that any part of him could possibly be soft, even as the lines around his eyes would have crinkled deep and knowing. She knew better now, and perhaps a small part of her wished that they could have paused then, forgotten everything but the simple joy in music shared. But perhaps then too, that would have been a mistake. They had made so many before, it was too much of a luxury to wallow in the hindsight. One day, there would be time for reminisces and regrets, but not now, and not yet. Small trophies, she would take. Boo’s bare feet skipping in soft grass. It was not enough, but it was what she had.

“I never heard anything so beautiful,” Cato might have whispered, if he had been there in that room. He might have stepped up close behind her, stopping himself short of reaching out, staring up at the same stars that she was looking at now. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“There’s a lot of things,” she would reply, “that you decided I couldn’t do before I did them.”

That might have got a smile, not a laugh, and she might have glanced up, a challenge in her eye. Maybe she would be bold, or maybe he would, but someone’s hand would cup someone else’s face, and lips would press against lips. She’d feel him grin at last, something pure and open, and when he’d pull away, or when she would, those shutters would have been flung wide, enough to see through to the heart of him at last. She might even have unlatched her own.

Noah would be different. Noah would have wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, held her safe and close. They would have listened to the sounds around them, and he would have drawn her back, until there was nothing left of anything but the two of them in the world.

“What did I tell you?” he would have said, when the silence had stretched between them, not in a chasm, but in the softest of blankets. “We’re strong, you and me.”

And she would have kissed him, hard enough and fierce enough that he would never have doubted how much she loved him, and how much fight she had still to give in order to protect him.

Somewhere nearby, a bird hooted in the night, and a quiet, answering noise sounded back. She couldn’t tell where it had come from, until a gliding black shape swooped down low over the bushes, disappearing into the foliage. Soon, she would take that path too.

With careful movements, Rosalee sank to her knees, until just her chin rested against the sill of the window. From this angle, she couldn’t see the trees at all, just the long distant stars, stretching out farther than her mind would let her imagine.

She thought of her mother again, let her lips form the words of a prayer she had known in her childhood. Be proud, she added to it, still in silence, and don’t be angry with me. The wind rustled low, catching strands of her hair until they tickled at her face. Despite herself, she couldn’t help but smile, didn't bother to brush them away. Those gentle touches would have to be answer enough for her, for now.

Footsteps behind her door. Rosalee glanced over her shoulder, held her breath as they came close, then let it out slowly as they continued on, not stopping. Elizabeth? It would not have been the first time that the two women found themselves the only ones awake in this house. No. Elizabeth had gone already, back home to her husband, to build up parts of her own life again. The steps echoed quietly, stockings or socks padding gently against hard wood boards, until they disappeared entirely down the hall.

Stretching, Rosalee raised herself up, joints creaking and cracking, muscles stiff. She yawned, and it only felt like half a lie. The bed behind her was looming, barely visible in the shadows, and she clenched her hands again and again, not moving further from her place at the window.

“Go to bed,” she heard her mother say in the darkness. “You’ve got a long day tomorrow.”

“They’re all long days,” she replied.


End file.
